Demons, Fairies, and Wild Men
by Lucilla Darkate
Summary: After Curt Wild's death, Tommy Stone gets a letter, and a couple of surprise visitors . . . and ancient history is dug up and danced on.[Complete]
1. The News

Although what you are about to see is a work of fiction,

it should nevertheless be played

at maximum volume.

--Velvet Goldmine--

* * *

"**_. . . infamous seventies glam-rocker, Curt Wild, was found dead in his house in West Berlin, apparently from a drug overdose. His housekeeper discovered his body early yesterday morning amid the burned remains of most of his belongings. More of his charred possessions were found later in the front yard by the police, apparently thrown off of the balcony by the musician himself. We go now to Nancy Trent, with an interview . . ."_**

"Oh shit," Shannon whispered, staring at the television in horror. She grabbed the arm of a passing girl with costumes slung over her arms. "Has Tommy seen this yet?"

The girl blinked. "What?"

"The news, you idiot girl!" She shoved the girl out of her way and hurried to Tommy Stone's dressing room.

She took a deep breath to steady her nerves—she was going to need whatever she could get—then she cautiously tapped on the door. "Tommy?"

There was no response, but from the other side of the door she heard the distinct sound of glass crashing. She cracked the door open and peaked in.

Tommy Stone stood in the center of the room with his back to her. On the floor by the wall lay a shattered martini glass. There was no need to ask what was wrong; the television beside his dressing table was on mute, but there on the screen was Curt Wild, long hair flying, head thrown back, silently screaming lyrics to a silent electric guitar.

"You saw," Shannon said inanely.

"Of course I fucking saw," Tommy snarled. He raked a hand through his blonde hair. "Shut the door."

She turned to obey, but a hand on the other side of the door stopped her. She glared at the man standing there. "Mr. Stone is not taking—"

The man smiled courteously. "My name is Gerald Perkins. I am—I was—Mr. Wild's attorney."

Tommy turned to look at the man. He looked expensive; fitted dark grey suit, black tie, clean cut, with neat little gold-rimmed spectacles. A briefcase. Definitely a lawyer.

He squeezed the bridge of his nose, sensing a massive God-smite-me headache in the works. "Leave us alone, Shannon."

"But—"

"Get out, Shannon!"

"Yes sir," she said angrily. She glared at Perkins and made sure to slam the door just a little on her way out.

"I'm sorry. I would say she isn't usually like that, but it would be a lie," Tommy said.

Perkins gave him a thin, humorless smile and without being invited, took a seat in a plush chair on the wall opposite the dressing table. He set his briefcase on his lap and opened it with little snapping sounds, then looked up at Tommy Stone with dark lifted brows.

"I expect you know why I'm here?" He said.

Tommy met the man's clever, piercing eyes calmly. He moved the dressing table chair to face the lawyer and sat in it. "That really depends on what you know."

Perkins smirked and removed an envelope from his case. "I know enough, Mr. Stone," he said, and handed over the envelope.

Tommy took it cautiously, as though it might bite him. It was good paper; expensive vellum stationary with a name engraved across it in gold; a name that he had thrown away . . . ages ago it seemed. A name that he had hoped never to hear or see linked to him again; Brian Slade.

He glanced from the paper to the lawyer. Perkins nodded and sat back with a shrug. "I have been charged with handling Mr. Wild's estate. I have no knowledge of what that envelope contains, except that he mentioned it specifically in his will. I was to deliver it personally to a Mr. Thomas Stone. I believe that would be you."

"Yes," Tommy said faintly, staring at the envelope apprehensively. "I suppose it is."

He took a letter opener from his dressing table and slit the seal with a quick flick. There were three pieces of paper inside, covered bottom to top in the sharp, jagged scrawl that was Curt Wild.

Tommy began to read:

_Brian, Brian, Brian . . . it's been a long time . . ._


	2. The Letter: Page One

_Brian, Brian, Brian . . . it's been a long time. Too fucking long. And now, I suppose, I should call you Tommy Stone. That is your new name now after all, isn't it? And I wouldn't want to start this off with any more confusion than absolutely necessary. There will be more than enough of that for you later . . . but enough of that for now. _

_If you're reading this, then I'm dead (now, how's that for dramatic?). Anyway, I'm dead. _

_Finally. _

_It will be an overdose (tell me you didn't fucking see that one coming), and they will call it an accident. _

_Don't believe it. There was nothing accidental about it. When you've done as many fucking drugs as I have, you get a kind of sixth-sense about certain things—like just how much is enough, and how much is too much._

_Call it what you want to call it. Suicide? Sure, why not. Wasn't it Nietzsche who said that the most noble thing a man can do is take his own life before time can lay him waste? . . . Something like that._

_Crock of shit if you ask me. There wasn't anything noble about it. I killed myself because I got tired. I've been getting tired for a long time. _

_Tired of watching all of our dreams melt into nothing; the scrambling, desperate, stupid kids who wanted so much to be like us finally gave up the glitter and went on with their lives; to work, to marriage, kids, the whole American dream, white picket fence lifestyle. Then there's us; the rockers, the wild children, the freaks, the stoners, the homos, the minstrels—what are we supposed to do now? When all we know is glam and music? _

_We all know what you did—changed your name and sold out so you could keep singing, find any way you could to stay in the light, even if it meant selling your soul. But what about the rest of us? Those of us who did it for the music more than the fame? Can you see Jack Fairy selling real-estate in Queens? In a dress? Or me? Can you see me anywhere else but on a stage, lurking in the back of a bar, or sprawled on a bed?_

_We can't all be chameleons, Brian. Some of us have to be men. And men, being mortal, die._

_I guess I could have done it with more dignity and grown old, but that's not me. We both know I rarely ever did anything with any fucking dignity, and I think we both know I was never meant to grow old._

_So the question of the moment isn't really about me, it's about you. What ever happened to Brian Slade? _

_I'll tell you. He didn't die—he wasn't allowed to die with any kind of dignity, or even with any kind of flare—he was swallowed up by the monster, the fucking Frank Sinatra wannabe that's wearing his skin. _

_Brian Slade had grace, beauty, and such talent. And somewhere along the way, he lost them all._

_He wasn't always good, he wasn't always smart, or original, but hardly any of us are. I know damn well I'm not—that you're holding this letter in your hands right now is proof of that. Curt Wild: just another washed-out rock star that ODed on a freaky meth cocktail. Except, I think maybe burning all my shit and chucking it out the window first might count as original. Not too original, just enough to guarantee me a little spot on the evening news. My point is, Brian Slade wasn't a saint, but he bled, and screamed, and fucked, and the masks he wore he donned with amusement and flourish, as accessories and costumes. He didn't build them up as anything more, he didn't hide behind them, and when he pretended to be someone else, it was only for the moment, and it was only pretend. _

_I'm finding it hard to write this to Tommy Stone. Who the fuck is Tommy Stone? Nothing to me. I keep seeing Brian reading this, not this man Stone, who I don't know, who I don't want to know. These words are for Brian Slade, wherever he may be._

_I remember the first time I saw you. I was covered in oil and glitter, so bombed out of my fucking scull that I couldn't think straight—straight for me, that is._

_You were standing in the shadows, away from the crowd, thinking yourself unnoticed. But I noticed you. How could I not? You had a face more beautiful than any woman's, and with your hair long, wearing that ridiculous purple dress thing, for just a second, I thought you were a woman, and my eyes almost passed you by._

_I don't remember much about that night—the fire, the glitter, the screaming guitars (God, how they hated me, and I loved it)—but I remember my first glimpse of Brian Slade. And I remember later how I went looking for you, and woke up the next morning in a tent between a man I had never seen before and a woman I wished never to see again._

_When I saw you again, you were famous, and I was already tired, and so full of drugs and a hundred other types of poison I couldn't even say my own name—and I didn't give a shit who you were—then I saw that face, and I remembered._

_No one was to blame for what happened next. You have your nature, and I have mine, and I make no excuses for who and what I am. You knew that going in, and still you came to me, arms open and soul yearning. But how could any passion, no matter how hot, survive in the blinding lights of a thousand flashbulbs?_

_Blame me for walking away if it makes you feel better, but don't forget, you came looking for me. Before that, I didn't even know who the fuck you were, some tarted up British rocker like all the rest, just some pretty face I saw once in a crowd . . . _

A tentative knock on the door brought Tommy back to the present. "What?"

The door opened and Shannon looked into the room. She took in the lawyer reclined in the soft chair with his briefcase on the floor by his feet, and Tommy gripping the sheets of paper in his hands so tightly that the tips of his fingers were white.

"Excuse me," she said nervously. "Tommy, there's someone here to see you—"

"I'm busy," he said shortly.

"But, I don't think—"

"If it's so bloody important it can damn well wait," he snapped, losing his patience with her.

She blinked and looked again at the letter in his hand, wondering what it could be, to upset him so much. She hadn't seen Tommy act like this in, oh—ever. Not since . . .

"Shannon, get out, now, or you're fired," Tommy said coldly.

"Yes sir." She quickly left and closed the door.

Grumbling to himself, Tommy flipped to the second page and began to read:

_It was always your nature to change, not just yourself, but anyone close to you as well. It was part of your charm . . ._


	3. The Letter: Page Two

_It was always your nature to change, not just yourself, but anyone close to you as well. It was part of your charm. And then you tried to change me, you stupid son of a bitch, and I wouldn't, or couldn't be changed, not even for you._

_You dyed your hair bubblegum blue and started taking advice from Jerry like his fucking words were passed down by God. I changed my sound, you said. That's bullshit, Brian, and you know it. I didn't change a fucking thing, and that was the real problem. If you're honest, it wasn't my 'sound' you were interested in anyway, but something rather lower on the anatomy. Don't get me wrong, I was happy to oblige, but the reality of it is that, in the end, like me, you were sick of seeing our pictures in every celebrity magazine the world over; a nickel apiece for any pre-pubescent boy to jerk off to._

_Jerry had made just about all the gold he could off of parading me around, so I was just a loose end that needed to be tied up or cut off—I could understand that. _

_And you . . . well, you used people, Brian. You changed them to suit you, then used them up and threw them away. It started with your sweet little Mandy, and I think maybe . . . maybe I was the only one to walk out before you decided you were finished with me. Even so, I loved Brian Slade, and I could forgive him for using me. We all use people._

_I didn't say anything when I left—I didn't have to. We'd already said all there was to say; anything more would have been just glitter. So I left, 'back to my wolves, my junkie twerps, and bloody shock treatments,' as you put it. I was actually surprised to find them still waiting for me. _

_Fuck me, indeed. You certainly did._

"_The world has changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history" . . . Do you remember those words? I said them to you . . . it seems like ages ago. You know, later, after everything was finished between us, I even wrote a song around those words. I got drunk one night and burned it, and never could remember exactly how it went again._

_That's the effect you had on me, and the world I think. You inspired us to poetry and music. _

_Christ, even Mandy had a bit of the poet in her, though it seemed to show itself at the oddest possible moments. She's a smart woman, your cute little wife, but I bet you didn't know that. She played the silly, vapid party girl so well, even you believed there was nothing more. Your poor wife. Your poor, sweet, stupid wife. She didn't have a fucking clue in God's creation what she was getting herself into when she married you, did she? The bitch loved you, and even funnier than that, she thought you loved her. What she didn't know, and what I found out too late, you've never loved anyone—except maybe yourself, and I even wonder about that._

"_Everyone stole from Jack," do you remember her saying that? She said it all the time, like it was the most insightful idea in the goddamned world. And of course, it was true, but everyone knew that. "Everyone stole from Jack." Of course they did; before Jack, there was nobody to steal from. Jack Fairy invented glam rock—or at least he invented the look of glam rock. And he did it by just being his own weird self._

_Then here I was, the ultimate 'wild child', and you couldn't get me in a dress to save my wretched fucking soul . . . _

"Mr. Stone." Shannon didn't bother knocking this time. Tommy might get angry, he might shout at her, but he'd be even angrier if she didn't say anything. "I really think you should talk to this—"

Tommy looked up, his blue eyes flashing dangerously. "I thought I told you to get out and not interrupt me."

"But, sir, it—it seems like it's kind of important, and—"

"You are a heartbeat away from losing your job Shannon. Whoever is waiting for me can fucking wait. Now get out. Don't make me tell you again."

She swallowed and nodded, then left again.

Tommy ran a hand through his already tousled blonde hair and turned to the last page of the letter.

_I saw you again briefly, at that concert Jack Fairy and I threw—what was it called? Death to Glitter, or something like that . . ._


	4. The Letter: Page Three: Signed

_I saw you again briefly, at that concert Jack Fairy and I threw—what was it called? Death to Glitter, or something like that. You were standing in the back by the door, in the shadows just like the first time I saw you. You were wearing a fucking fedora and a trench coat of all things—you could have worn pink feathers in your hair and been wrapped head to toe in sequins for all the good it did. I knew the moment you walked in, and I knew the moment you left._

_That was the last time I ever saw Brian Slade. _

_Tommy Stone was everywhere, on the TV, in magazines and papers, his face and name plastered on every building and billboard, his voice—Brian's voice, corrupted almost beyond recognition—was on every radio station, but Brian Slade was gone. He didn't just fade away like the rest of us though; he changed his image, put on a new face, got a new name, and kept singing._

_Telling the world you were Maxwell Demon wasn't the worst thing you ever did. But then you started to believe it, and that was fucking tragic. Maxwell Demon was a fiction, a modern fairy-tale to tantalize the imaginations of the aspiring young rockers of the world. A story, goddamn it, just a story. Brian Slade was lovely, with a smoke-broken voice that could slide down your skin like velvet, and a remarkable flair for the dramatic. He was also selfish, cruel, and heartless, but he lived. He was real. Why the fuck wasn't he good enough? You had to go and call yourself Maxwell Demon, and then, damn you, you had to live up to the name, and you did it by killing Brian Slade. _

_You wanted out, and I can't say I blame you for wanting it. But you should have stayed dead._

_There were others after you; I won't even try to pretend that there weren't. I think you'll agree that I'm not, and never have been, the celibate sort._

_I suppose now would be the time to tell you what this has really been all about. Ancient history aside, none of it changes the fact I am dead. Mr. Gerald Perkins esq. is probably sitting there right now, looking cool, and acutely bored with the entire melodramatic situation. The bastard._

_I left everything to Mandy, Perkins will confirm it. Everything; the house, the money, everything. The idea appealed to my sense of irony I suppose, and you have to admit it's ironic. There's a kind of poetic justice to it—she loved you, and you sucked her innocence out like some kind of mad diva vampire. You left her with nothing. I had no one to leave it to, so I gave everything to her. Maybe to make atonement—or maybe just because I know it will piss everyone off, and you know how I can't resist a chance to do that._

_Then there's the boy, Arthur. He came to me, looking for you. He thought I didn't know him, and in that first glance, I didn't. But then I looked again and there was that look in his eyes; desperation, curiosity, fear, and an insatiable yearning. You know the look. It's the one they all used to wear when they came seeking us, under all the glitter and eyeliner, as they thronged to the stage, wanting more than anything to be us. He wasn't the first one to look at me like that, he wasn't even the first one I seduced up on that rooftop, but he's the only one I still remember. And in that pub, I noticed him again. He was very much the same as I remembered; a little more worldly, a lot less innocent, and a decade older, but still the same. _

_He's a sweet kid, and not a bad lay if I do say so myself—and I would know, wouldn't I, Brian? _

_He already knows. And what he doesn't know, he suspects. Best to tell you that right off. Whatever else sweet young Arthur is or has been, he's a journalist, and a damn good one I think—after all, he found me. Anyone who can find me when I'm trying like hell not to be found . . . well, you can lie to him if you want, but don't expect him to believe it. And don't think for one second that you're safe. He's going to splash the story all over the news, I've made sure of it—today, we mourn the passing of Curt Wild, tomorrow we toast the death of Tommy Stone._

_I wouldn't be doing this if I believed for a fucking instant that Brian Slade was still alive in there somewhere. But I don't, and we all know what a vengeful bastard I can be._

_Take a deep breath Tommy boy, and open the door. I believe you've kept Mr. Stuart waiting long enough._

"Mr. Stone, I'm terribly sorry, but this reporter out here insists on seeing you and he says—" Shannon faltered. "Uh, Tommy, are you alright?"

He looked up at her, his eyes a little glazed, his face white. "Let him in Shannon," he said.

He glanced down at the pages in his hand and read the last line, scrawled beneath the flashing gold ink of Curt Wild's signature:

_Hate me or love me, sing my praises, or curse my name—but I dare you, I fucking dare you to ignore me._


End file.
